Gloved
by Bedshapely
Summary: A drunk and lovesick courier wants to take the doctor home


"To Carla!" The courier says, before downing part of yet another beer. Boone raises his whiskey glass in response, both mournful and dignified at the same time.

The party had gathered round the worn bar counters of Prospector Saloon to commiserate with the man, shirt front still damp with the blood of the men who took his wife. One by one they drank, shook hands, and filled out until only Boone, The courier, and Arcade (who was already late for his night shift at the Old Mormon Fort) remained.

The jukebox hums softly in the corner at the behest of Sunny Smiles, and when a particular sappy track comes on the courier can't help but acknowledge it in the context of the situation.

" _Hah._ She was a good woman, Boone- put up with you for all those years", he said, utterly sincere.

"Yeah well… Guess I'll never know why"

The former NCR gave off an aura of peace as he let the courier pay for his drink, nodding, and slowly rose.

"Thanks." Boone said gruffly. His tinted sunglasses caught lamplight as he pushed through the swinging doors.

The courier took a long swig of his drink. His eyes had taken on a glazed look, and slumped over the counter like that Arcade thought he looked like a Freeside puppy that had been kicked in the stomach one too many times.

Arcade bit back a line about having a late shift.

"…shouldn't you be slowing down? Whatever that is I'm pretty sure it doesn't do a thing to decelerate chronic inflammation of the liver."

The courier looks up at him, and the bottle tilts until the sticker shows on Arcade's side.

"Is that…"

"It's sunset sarsaparilla"

"Yes, I know, but-"

"They spike em here. I need it for what I'm about to do. It's sweet." Arcade regards him blankly with mild concern.

"For what?" he asks.

"This" The courier surges forward and kisses him through a broad smile.

Sensing that Arcade needs to breathe, he releases and continues to sip his beer, unperturbed and obviously pleased with himself.

Arcade snaps his head away from his counterpart and stares at the patch of floor between his shoes, trying vainly to ignore the taste of foreign saliva in his mouth, obviously flustered.

"I don't really go for guys" The courier says thoughtfully. "But you…you're cute, smart, and I have a feeling that you only joined to look out for me"

 _Spot on._

He leans in again, and the Doctor notes the smell of dusky armor polish and albeit sweet beer, along with the darkening of his eyes and lower undertones of his voice.

"Been a lonely couple of weeks, Doc. Bed cold and spirit wasting. It aint healthy."

 _…Oh dear_

"How about you just take me back to work?" he tries.

The courier narrows his eyes.

"You want to do it at the Fort?'

That makes him choke.

"Thought so. I have a place at the Atomic Wrangler and that suite over by the lucky 38."

Arcade looks away from him again, suddenly fascinated by one of Trudy's ashtrays. Heat rises up the back of his neck.

'That Mr House logged on downstairs gives me the creeps." He said in his quiet voice.

"A.W it is then."

They catch a ride in the back of a blue cargo van, with the courier's sheriff hat drawn over his face and the Doctor sitting with his knees anxiously pressed together and hands resting on top of them, as he let himself be whisked away.

The Garrets were still cleaning their wares, and Arcade was forced to endure the brother's all-too-knowing wink and lopsided smirk as he was pulled by the hand up the stairs and to the room at the end.

"Let me take of my gloves", the courier says somewhat giddily, and skips his way to a side bathroom leaving Arcade shifting nervously on the mattress.

When he returns, the courier promptly slings his limbs over the bed, rearranges himself into a lying down position-

…and falls asleep.

Arcade smiles down at him weakly, disappointment showing in his face. To his credit he harbored no ill feelings, and to prove it carefully sets the lining of a thin faded bed sheet across his bed-partner's shoulders.

He removes his glasses and places them neatly folded on a side table. When he reaches over for the lamp switch opposite he is afforded an endearing glimpse of courier in recharge mode –mouth slightly agape.

In the dark gloom with only the neon green and white fluorescence from the Silver Rush next door slithering through the window, he settles himself against the bedpost with his fingers locked together and the remnants of a chuckle playing on his lips.

He keeps himself awake long enough to enjoy the new found closeness of his silent company.

The doctor awakes to the sound of the Courier noisily fumbling around in the bathroom.

He stretches his long legs over the edge of the bed and waits patiently. When the Courier does appear he's wearing his gloves, along with a bashful and pained expression.

He stares at the doctor for a long time, clearly taking in his face without the glasses. It becomes apparent that he wasn't going to be the one to talk first.

"Good morning", Arcade says cheerfully.

The Courier rubs the back of his neck nervously.

"Yeah…hey, thanks for helping me out with Boone last night.

"I didn't do anything dumb did I?"

"Nope."

"…You sure?"

Arcade sat up.

"Before we left the saloon, I was busy telling you how full of patients the Fort was. You said that you wouldn't mind it if I camped here."

You could practically see the man's mental sigh of relief as he turned to leave.

"Don't know why you made _such a big show_ of removing your clothes next to me, though. "

Arcade reveled in the way that other man's entire frame seemed to jolt at the thought.

"Makes me think that it bears some intended connection to our last "bachelor" conversation"

He grins widely and lets the courier struggle for words, leaning his back against the bedpost once more.

He hadn't felt this cocky in a long time.


End file.
